


Kisses of Fire

by milidot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, because gregory lestrade I mean come on you try writing him without swearing, there is some profanity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-06-17 02:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15451713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milidot/pseuds/milidot
Summary: This is it. My first story on ao3. My second (third?) venture into fanfiction. I have a lot to learn, for sure (i.e.: PLAN STORIES you moron don't just START WRITING) but I hope you like this first chapter, and I'll try to have more coming eventually.(title from a song by Agnetha Faltskog, I think)





	1. Fifteen

**Author's Note:**

> This is it. My first story on ao3. My second (third?) venture into fanfiction. I have a lot to learn, for sure (i.e.: PLAN STORIES you moron don't just START WRITING) but I hope you like this first chapter, and I'll try to have more coming eventually. 
> 
> (title from a song by Agnetha Faltskog, I think)

It must have been a mistake, Mycroft thought, staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror on his bedroom wall. In fact, if it hadn’t been at least an hour since he had woken up, and if he hadn't been expecting his Soulmark to appear at precisely nine twenty seven a.m. on his fifteenth birthday, he would have been absolutely positive it was a dream. But here it was, and here he was, awake as he ever had been -- and whether it was a mistake or not was, on second thought, irrelevant.

He took a step closer to the mirror, observing his face. It was none the worse for the mark, he thought wryly; but then, nothing really COULD have made it worse. He frowned at his reflection. Big nose. Tall forehead. Unfortunate curly ginger hair. Those _horrid freckles_. And all that ignoring the hateful pudge around his middle which refused to leave him, no matter what diet he tried. No-one could love this body; he was sure of that. Not even his soulmate would necessarily love him -- there was only a ninety one percent success rate in the pairings, which were assigned by Fate, or God, or whatever. He was more likely than most to end up in the nine percent, he was sure. Besides, he told himself, trying to quash any hope he may have had left, a soulmate would be a liability he could not afford. His life plan didn't leave room for a romantic interest, no matter how much his mother wished for grandchildren. Anyway, he was relatively certain she wouldn't be getting any of those out of him. If nothing else, soulmates did tend to align with sexuality.

How unusual was it to have a Soulmark on the lips, he wondered, tracing the mark with one finger. It was slightly off-center, but could almost be passed off as a dark lipstick if he touched it up a bit, maybe, on the left side, and concealed the part that went above. Yes, that would look alright. He shook his head. Really, it was just his luck, to have such a visible one. Perhaps he could find a good shade of lipstick and hide it entirely; nobody need know that the first place his soulmate would touch him would be...

His train of thought derailed at the sudden realization that this meant his soulmate’s first touch was going to be a _kiss_. Oh, Sherlock was going to have a field day with that. Not to mention the other students at his university -- except they weren't going to know, he decided abruptly, and turned away from the mirror, dropping his hand to his side. It was bad enough that he was the youngest there, having graduated high school four years early (which was the most his parents had allowed -- they claimed that if he skipped any more years, his social life would be damaged beyond repair. As if he cared! But they wouldn't back down, so he simply adjusted his life plan accordingly); a strangely placed Soulmark wasn't a distinguishing feature he wanted. He wouldn't hide it now; there was no point, since Sherlock, nearly as astute as Mycroft himself had been at eight, would notice no matter how well he hid it -- as would Mummy, no doubt. But as soon as he could, he'd stop at a drugstore for some makeup. And then... well, he'd just keep hiding it indefinitely. Who needed a soulmate, anyway? Besides, there was, he told himself as he pulled on a jacket in preparation for his morning walk, no reason to think about this now. It was just sentiment, and he didn't need any of _that_.


	2. Passage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two, folks. Enjoy!

Mycroft’s rule against sentiment, while acknowledged by his mind, didn’t seem to reach his heart. But his heart (the figurative one) was inconsequential. That was, at least, what he told himself during the second year of university, during which he had brief but intense crushes on three classmates, his university-provided housing room-mate, one teacher’s assistant, one actual professor, and the barista at his favorite coffee shop. He was, in every case, disappointed as to the location of their soulmark (hand, arm, cheek, back, forearm, and, in one notable case, all across the left side of their body); not, of course, that he would ever admit to so much as noticing it. Any and all romantically oriented thoughts and emotions, and many of the non-romantic ones as well, were locked up tight in a far-back room of his Mind Palace labelled “irrelevant” -- a room that, to his dismay, was almost overflowing. If nothing else, the year gave him plenty of practice suppressing his emotions; a skill invaluable in a politician, and somewhat depressing in a sixteen-year-old.

He did make, to his mild surprise and Sherlock’s very exaggerated one, a friend that year: an eighteen-year-old named Alan with a taste for punk rock music and cheap cigarettes who was unusually good at economics, a class that was, for Mycroft, _almost_ challenging. They spoke rarely, and mostly about classwork, but Alan supplied Mycroft with cigarettes and occasionally helped him speed up his economics homework, and in return Mycroft helped him with physics and chemistry. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, and if Mycroft did sometimes feel as if he was being taken advantage of, it was never bad enough to warrant a breaking of their tentative friendship. (Alan’s Soulmark was half a handprint on his wrist. Not that Mycroft cared. He deleted the knowledge nearly as often as it came to his attention; though, his memory being what it was, even things he deleted never seemed to stay gone.)

When Mycroft returned home that year, he couldn’t help but brag, just a little; Sherlock had scoffed at the idea that his brother would make any interpersonal connections at uni, and Mycroft was, of course, always trying to prove him wrong. Sherlock was still skeptical, but was soon swept off on a different tangent, trying to convince Mycroft that he had to come speak to the police because -- something about shoes, and a swimming pool... Mycroft, annoyed by his little brother’s attitude, refused to have anything to do with the matter, and Sherlock stalked off with a scowl. Nonetheless, Sherlock came to his brother with some chemistry questions the next day, and for assistance in dissecting a frog the next, and their rivalry remained subtle, almost to the point of being fun competitiveness. Sherlock was only nine, after all, and Mycroft was sure the boy enjoyed having someone as smart as him (well, smarter) around for once.

The next year at uni, everything seemed to remain mostly consistent; Mycroft had six more fleeting attractions (two hand-marks, one shoulder-mark, three hidden-under-clothing marks -- not that he was keeping track, heaven forbid) and stuffed his emotions deeper and deeper into the darkness in the back of his mind. He also developed an unfortunate crush on Alan two months before the latter found his soulmate, a short girl with a Soulmark across half her palm, dimples, and, according to Alan, “the best cooking skills ever.” Mycroft, trying to ignore his feelings of betrayal and jealousy, remained in frequent contact with the two of them long enough to figure out that the girl’s cooking was indeed exquisite, that she asked too many questions about the location of his soulmark (which was still dutifully hidden by a nude lip shade and concealer, every morning), and that Alan was an attentive, loving boyfriend. He cut them out of his life as soon as he could and added “anything more than a somewhat friendly acquaintance” to his list of relationships to avoid getting into.

Sherlock, as easily amused as any ten-year-old, laughed his head off after deducing that Mycroft had lost his only friend. “I told you so,” he’d grinned, almost as soon as Mycroft walked in the door over the Christmas vacation. “Ha! And you said you were ‘reasonably confident’ you’d be friends for years!”

Mycroft contented himself with giving his little brother a glare, which the latter unfortunately missed since he was laughing so hard. He ignored his mother’s compassionate look, and his father’s worried one, in favor of heading upstairs. “Do me a favor, Mummy, and call me for dinner,” he called over his shoulder as he made his way towards the comfort of his childhood bedroom.

Behind him, Sherlock snorted with renewed mirth. “Oh, yes, Mykie would _never_ miss a meal,” Mycroft heard him say, and, though he obviously wouldn’t take his brother’s words to heart, he absently ran a palm over his stomach and frowned at the softness. Maybe he should get himself a treadmill.

At eighteen, Mycroft got his own flat, eager to get away from his brother, who seemed to have taken it upon himself to be as annoying as humanly possible; not only to him, but to everybody. It also gave him plenty of the independence he’d been wishing for ever since he was two and discovered that as an adult you could do whatever you like. The reality didn’t really match what his expectations had been back then -- it was a lot more responsibility, and a lot less candy -- but still, the freedom was pleasant. He kept on studying at the university, but also picked up a part-time job as a PA for a low-grade politician: the first step towards his ultimate goal of becoming an indispensable part of the British government. The year went by without much drama and not much of interest, and Mycroft, as usual, avoided romantic and emotional entanglements (which involved, to his disgust, turning down a man at his workplace who was, in his own words, “lookin’ for a soulmate-less side-fling”. Mycroft shut him down with a ice-cold glare and the man never approached him for _that sort of thing_ again). He did, however, take it upon himself to lose his virginity -- it was worthwhile to _try_ having sex, he figured; not wanting a soulmate didn’t mean he had to be celibate, and perhaps it would be enjoyable. The experience was fine, and he decided he was not averse to doing it again, as long as emotions were not involved. Kisses were, however, absolutely forbidden.

He returned home for Christmas, and Christmas only -- during the other vacations there were during the year, he remained at his flat, working. Sherlock, in his own way, seemed glad to see him, bursting into a stream of deductions as soon as Mycroft stepped in the front door, and dragging him and his overnight bag into his “science lab”, where he chattered on about an experiment he’d done on a certain chemical property of blood. The brothers’ relationship over Christmas was almost civil; Mycroft’s with his parents, less so. They made countless hints as to his romantic status, some of them not particularly subtle (“why don’t you find that nice girl you’re destined to settle down with, Mykie?”) and when he, annoyed into speaking, came out as gay and simultaneously insisted that he wasn’t interested in any relationships, they ignored the second part of his statement and changed their tune to, “get some civil partnership with _whoever_ your soulmate is, then”. He left the day after Christmas, offering a farewell nod only to Sherlock, who grimaced sympathetically in return.

By the following June, Mycroft decided he had finished as much of school as he wanted to, graduated university, and turned his focus to his job. Rising up the ranks was not particularly difficult for someone with his skillset and memory; the days and months blurred together in an endless cycle of work, eat, sleep, and if he occasionally neglected the eating and sleeping parts of that, there was nobody to worry about him and advise him otherwise. He fell into a productive, albeit unhealthy, way of life, and steadily wove himself in as an irreplaceable part of the British government, taking internships in various departments, learning to do fieldwork (which he found he really did not enjoy), avoiding anyone who seemed romantically interested in him, and -- still -- hiding his Soulmark, every morning.

Sherlock’s Soulmark, when it appeared, was in what he called a “dreadfully boring” location: his forearm. Mycroft suppressed a twinge of jealousy; it would have been so much easier to hide his if it had been in such a place! The constant layer of lipstick made his lips chapped and dry, and he hated the tedium of applying it every morning, but it could not be helped. Sherlock expressed some excitement about his Soulmark appearing, no matter how often Mycroft reminded him that caring was not an advantage. However, Sherlock’s people skills being as bad as they were, Mycroft was fairly confident that nobody would get too close to his brother anyway.

Nonetheless, he was slightly worried, and he set an eye -- or rather, several cameras -- on Sherlock as soon as he had enough power to do so. By that time Sherlock had moved on to study chemistry at university, and seemed to be getting on suspiciously well with one Victor Trevor. Mycroft went through all the information he could on the man who’d caught his little brother’s attention: three years older than Sherlock, dated a lot, mostly decent grades. There was some niggling sense, perhaps, that something was wrong -- Trevor had been seen in a dodgy part of town; he had friends who were ten, fifteen years older than him; Sherlock sometimes disappeared into Trevor’s room for hours on end -- but when Mycroft confronted his brother about it, on one of the rare occasions they met, the sixteen-year-old was insistent that absolutely nothing was _wrong_ , shove your big nose out of my business and get rid of your stupid cameras, _Fatcroft_. Which Mycroft, of course, did not do. He returned to his work and left his brother mostly alone, but always with some CCTV feed in the corner of his (inconveniently big and clunky, but usable) computer’s screen.

A year passed before Mycroft’s bad feeling about his brother’s companion was confirmed. During that year, Mycroft’s emotional shields were slowly lowered. He’d gone out to a high-end bar one night, to meet with someone as part of a work engagement, but had drunk too much and ended up staying after his meeting was over; later that night, he’d met a short dark-haired stranger with a black-marked palm who somehow managed to flirt with him effectively enough to get his number. Mycroft woke the next morning with a headache and a text message from someone whose contact name was _Prince Charming_ , and on an impulse -- telling himself this man would be a good sexual partner, and absolutely nothing more -- he responded to the text. A vague relationship began, and though he knew the man wasn’t his soulmate, after a few months he admitted to feeling _something_ for the man.

And then, in what was quite unfortunate timing (a few days before Mycroft had planned to confess his feelings), Victor Trevor was discovered to be, of all things, a drug addict -- and Sherlock, to Mycroft’s dismay, as well. Oh, sure, Sherlock claimed he had it under control, and was furious that Mycroft dared pretend he _cared_ , but the realization was a serious blow to Mycroft’s sense of security. His relationship with his brother was, he told himself, his only real emotional attachment of any kind. And here it was, inconveniencing him. Hurting him. No, he wouldn’t cut ties with his brother -- the boy would be helpless without him -- but he would avoid attachments to anyone else. His next meeting with the would-be boyfriend was his last.

Time flew by, one way or another. Sherlock graduated from university and went to rehab, not willingly, but without much say in the matter. “If you’re going to be as irresponsible as a small child, I will treat you as one,” Mycroft hissed at him, and although Sherlock protested (“you’re not my _father_ , Mycroft, leave me the fuck _alone_ ”) the threat of their _actual_ parents being told was enough to make him irritably agree to go. Once he was released, Sherlock got himself a small flat in a horrid part of London, absolutely refusing to accept Mycroft’s offer of money to buy a better apartment. Mycroft set up cameras in his brother’s new place as soon as he could; he didn’t entirely trust him not to go back to the drugs as soon as he could. Sherlock spent a lot of his time in chemistry labs across the city, making his way in by using his genius and being kicked out because of his inability to keep his deductions to himself. He also frequented crime scenes, finding them and sneaking his way past the police tape to observe from up close. Mycroft knew his brother often spoke to the police, and knew just as well that they rarely listened to his deductions; he sympathised, but knew better than to offer advice. Sherlock remained clean for several months before he relapsed into bad habits. Mycroft noticed at once. There wasn’t much he could do, but he did manage to extract a promise that his brother would always make a list of all the drugs he took. Other than that, he occasionally gazed sadly at the camera feeds of his brother lying on various surfaces in his awful flat, high as a kite. If only he would use his powers _properly_ , like Mycroft did himself. He offered Sherlock a government job multiple times, and was rejected on each occasion.

It was at age twenty-nine that Mycroft first saw his soulmate.


	3. Lapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all stuff I had written in advance, by the way. I have one more chapter, and then I'm going to have to write as I go along, I guess? hope I don't fall behind, not that I HAVE a schedule. Anyway. Enjoy! 
> 
> (I still haven't entirely figured out how ao3 works with the formatting and stuff, sorry.)

The connection, oddly enough, came through Sherlock, and frankly, Gregory Lestrade did a lot more good for Sherlock than for his older brother. In fact, the Detective Sergeant didn’t even know Mycroft existed. The same was not true the other way around; Mycroft was  _ painfully _ aware of his soulmate’s presence in his brother’s life, and no matter how much he tried to avoid the mere thought of the man, he found his mind returning to that  _ face. _ The spiky brown hair which had just barely begun to gray. Those glinting dark eyes. The sharp jawline. Damn it all, the man was ridiculously attractive! Mycroft shoved the thoughts away again and again. Sentiment would get him hurt. He would simply have to avoid meeting the man,  _ ever _ . 

 

Sherlock had called his brother the day after he’d met Lestrade. He told Mycroft, though in cruder words, that he’d been high on a seven percent solution of cocaine, roaming the streets, and had come across a murder scene which he’d been unable to resist. The Detective Sergeant in charge of the case had been standing near the body, ordering people around, when Sherlock had made his way up to him and started rattling off deductions to the man’s back. Lestrade had spun around, staring confusedly at the tall, pale man with the dilated pupils and rapid speech for nearly twenty seconds before snapping handcuffs onto him and calling for someone to drive him back to the station. Sherlock had immediately noticed the man’s Soulmark, of course, which corresponded so exactly with the location of Mycroft’s that there was no doubt in his mind as to whether or not the man was his brother’s soulmate. “He was so slow to respond, and unable to solve such a simple case,” Sherlock sneered over the phone. “A perfect match for you, Mycroft; he’d be impressed even by  _ your _ meager intelligence.” 

 

“And yet he identified that you were on drugs within twenty seconds,  _ and  _ managed to get handcuffs on you,” Mycroft pointed out, filling his voice with superiority. “May I remind you that  _ I _ am the one who pulled the strings to get you out of that? You know who holds the power here, brother mine.” 

 

He could hear Sherlock smile as he spoke. “You’re  _ sure _ you’re not going to reveal yourself to him? Because the tone of your voice is almost bordering on not-icy, there--”

 

Mycroft hung up on him (it would be a sufficient response), and was left wondering if Sherlock was right. Why, he’d practically  _ jumped  _ to Lestrade’s defense. He placed the phone on its receiver with a frown. Whatever that gut reaction had been, it was unacceptable, soulmate or no. He would have to work on suppressing it. Mycroft knew, at least, that Sherlock was not going to reveal him to Lestrade. That would doubtless deprive Sherlock of the Sergeant’s company, and he had no incentive for  _ that _ \-- especially not when, as his brother had divulged with an smirk in his voice, the man had actually been willing to listen to his deductions about the case.

 

He looked up Lestrade’s file. Not out of curiosity, or, heaven forbid, because of their shared Soulmark (although he stared at that mark on the man’s police file photograph for an embarrassingly long time, simply because, he told himself, it was bizarre to see someone else with a lip marking like his own. Lestrade’s was off-center in the other direction from his, and a part of the black marking was located under his lower lip.  _ He _ didn’t hide it). No, Mycroft looked the Detective Sergeant up for the simple reason that he looked up every person, thoroughly, before allowing them to interact at length with his brother. He’d been doing it since the discovery of Victor Trevor’s drug problems, and if the person seemed a danger to Sherlock, Mycroft would pay them a visit. Thankfully, Lestrade seemed harmless enough. He was in a relationship with a woman who was not his soulmate, the file said. Mycroft resisted the urge to look her up; she was unimportant.  _ But she’s taking my place _ , a barely-there voice in his head whispered. He ignored it. 

 

Months passed. Sherlock, caught up in the novelty of being involved with Scotland Yard, was too busy for drugs; even his symptoms of withdrawal were ignored in the excitement of the cases. Mycroft kept an eye on him, and had his flat emptied of drugs at the first opportunity. He was, for once, satisfied at the way his brother’s life was going. He had been, much as he was resolute not to admit it, more than a little worried. And although he knew that Sherlock would be nothing but rude to him, Mycroft still called him once a month; they argued, as always, and although Sherlock’s comments on his weight were still frequent (and certainly ignored. If Mycroft was skipping desserts, that was only because he wasn’t hungry), they were altogether less cruel than they had once been. They settled into an almost comfortable sibling relationship, united in their intelligence and distaste for idiocy.

 

With his brother in a relatively stable state, Mycroft could turn his mind almost entirely to his job. He had learnt much already about various departments in the government, and stored the information in mental file cabinets from which he could bring out any piece of information in a short about of time; already, some people came to him with questions instead of going through official government channels. He’d even spoken twice with the Prime Minister -- a bumbling idiot, of course, but then, most people were -- and felt that his position was progressing well. Right now, he was a shortcut; he was, however, confident that he could eventually become indispensable.

 

It was soon after Sherlock’s twenty fourth birthday that he announced his forever job was going to be Consulting Detective. “Only one in the world,” he boasted during a chess game with his brother, looking extremely pleased with himself.

 

Mycroft, long past resigned to the fact that Sherlock wasn’t going to go into the government with him and that his arrogance knew no bounds, moved a chess piece and calmly responded with, “not particularly profitable, is it? When are you going to move out of that horrid flat? Check.” 

 

Sherlock shrugged. “When I want to, and not a moment sooner.” He castled his king out of the way. Mycroft shifted his piece in response, and after a few more back-and-forth moves between the two of them, he sat back in his chair.

 

“Checkmate.” 

 

Sherlock got to his feet. “I’m going to the Yard. Lestrade said he had a cold case for me. Shall I give him your regards?”

 

Mycroft smiled, close-lipped, in response. His brother, for some reason, felt the need to mention Lestrade every single time they spoke. He would have liked to think that it was simply because Sherlock cared about the Sergeant (some human relations might do Sherlock a world of good); it was completely obvious, though, that the detective simply wanted to rub in the fact that he knew his brother’s soulmate. It was fortunate, then, that Mycroft could not care less about the man. He had said as much, twice, until it became obvious that his brother delighted in it regardless. After that, he simply smiled. Sherlock would say nothing about him; he knew that much. The status quo seemed likely remain intact for quite a while.

 

And then, two months later, Sherlock fell back into bad ways.

 

Lestrade had taken a break from work, to get married (as Sherlock told his brother a few days before the vacation began, watching Mycroft’s face carefully for any sign of a reaction. Mycroft wouldn't give him the pleasure of that, of course; he had Sherlock, and himself, almost entirely convinced that he really was emotionless, and he kept his face blank). Sherlock, with nobody left to give him cases, paced his flat, talking to a skull he called Billy, occasionally leaving the house just to wander the streets and deduce -- loudly and tactlessly -- random passersby. Mycroft, concerned, offered his brother a government case, but Sherlock was disdainful; he may be bored, but he wasn’t  _ desperate _ , he scoffed. The claim proved to be patently untrue. 

 

After two days of nothing, Sherlock left his flat in the middle of the night. Mycroft’s cameras picked up the blurry image of him leaving at one a.m., and returning three hours later, staggering, fumbling the keys and sniggering to himself. Mycroft himself was, somehow, asleep at the time. Full nights of sleep were rare in his life. They were, he thought wearily as he reviewed the footage the next morning, about to get a whole lot rarer.


	4. Addict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okey smokes, this is the last chapter I have written; I only hope I can write more before posting the next one, but inspiration is a fickle thing. Anyway. Hope you enjoy!

Sherlock was, for what it counted, a smart drug addict. He was good enough, at least, to hide his highs from Lestrade; he couldn’t possibly keep them from Mycroft, and he didn’t try. Mycroft, angry and disappointed and mostly worried, deigned to come to Sherlock’s horrible flat himself. Each time, he would demand to see the list of the drugs his brother had taken. The list was kept up diligently, with amounts and percent solutions, but that was the only bright side to the situation. When Mycroft wasn’t burying himself with work, he was watching his brother -- over cameras or in person. He grew pale from lack of sleep, pulling himself together only to do his job.  _ This is my only weakness _ , he tried to console himself.  _ I have no other. No soulmate to worry about. _ He didn’t bother putting on a brave face when he visited Sherlock. His brother was always too out of it to notice, sometimes blank and unaware of the world, sometimes lethargic and exhausted, sometimes ill and shaky.

 

Occasionally, once his honeymoon was over, Lestrade would come round with a case. He would always text a heads-up, which gave Sherlock the chance to hide the drugs and the high, and left time for Mycroft to leave before the man arrived. Mycroft hoped the cases would shake his brother out of it, but still the condition worsened, and Sherlock denied more cases than he took. It reached the point that Sherlock remained high all the time, coming down only to solve the rare murder case -- anything less was not worth his time, he insisted. Mycroft bit his lip and fretted over his brother’s increasing dosages and list length. (His teeth left marks in the lipstick he’d put on. He found himself retreating to his office or the bathroom to re-apply more and more often.)

 

At last, the façade cracked. Lestrade came over with no warning and found Sherlock upside-down in an armchair, staring blankly at the wall. Mycroft, later, looked over the footage; he saw the expression on the Sergeant’s face go from shock, to horror, to worry, to anger; he watched as Lestrade ran towards his brother and shook him back to earth, read his lips as he shouted,  _ what the hell is wrong with you _ ,  _ you swore you were clean, Sherlock!  _ Mycroft rested his head in his hands. The man  _ cared. _ Damn it, he cared so  _ much  _ about Mycroft’s rude, reckless brother. Only a genuinely good man would, and Mycroft had never been so tempted to reveal himself. A part of his mind dared to suggest that Lestrade was loyal, stubborn, romantic; that he believed in soulmates; that he would even accept  _ Mycroft _ , would leave his wife for him, perhaps-- but of course Mycroft did nothing. He simply watched, and hoped the man would do good for Sherlock.

 

And he did. It took a while for things to improve, which wasn’t surprising; Sherlock had never been so bad off before. Lestrade, however, had insisted that he wouldn’t allow Sherlock anywhere near any crime scene until he was off the drugs, and when, a week after the discovery, a particularly intricate case came up, Sherlock seemed to take it as enough incentive to clean up his act. Not that the process was anything near simple. Withdrawal, as Sherlock succinctly put it, was  _ shit. _ He'd been on such amounts of strong drugs that he couldn't stop cold; instead, he slowly weaned himself off the drugs, taking less each time. Mycroft, worried his brother would relapse, suggested a rehab center would help, but Sherlock simply scoffed (“and how well did that work  _ last time,  _ Mycroft?”) and continued on his own. His always-rare bouts of good moods grew rarer as his brain fought to retrain itself after such abuse, and at one point, Sherlock gave in to Mycroft's demands, and took a government case. That, Mycroft told himself, was either a good sign, or a very bad one. He could only hope it wasn't the latter. 

 

It took months. Mycroft remained in his state of distraction the entire time, his career practically on standby, doing only the bare minimum of work; he cursed his emotions, cursed his heart, cursed Sherlock's inability to stay out of trouble. Mummy had always said the boy would settle down once he found his soulmate, and, not for the first time, Mycroft hoped she was right. It would take a ridiculously patient person to deal with his brother, though -- who knew if such a person even existed? 

 

At last, unbearably long as those three and a half months felt, they were over. Sherlock, nearing his 25th birthday, was clean; his flat was drug-free; he returned to Scotland Yard in a blaze of triumph, right in time to solve a brutal triple-murder case. 

 

Mycroft -- thirty two years old, with the pressure to get a stable position hanging over his head -- threw himself, once again, into his work. His relation with his brother, which had been almost amiable as Sherlock struggled with the drugs, soured. The taunts about Lestrade, which had been teasing before, now became downright cruel;  _ he’d never love you, after all, _ Sherlock hissed at him one evening over the phone,  _ nobody ever could, you know. _ The remarks merely echoed what he told himself, so Mycroft ignored them. 

 

The two brothers settled into routine. Communications between them were rare, full of hostile comments and comebacks aimed to wound; in between, Mycroft kept an eye on his brother, primarily over CCTV. Once his attention was (mostly) back on his job, he made it up the government ranks as easily as he had before, since the competitors for the positions he aimed for were almost exclusively of average intelligence, if not blundering fools. Going out on the field as a quasi-secret-agent, however, as Mycroft ended up doing several times, was not easy in the least. He accepted it as a temporary necessary evil, which would raise his esteem in the eyes of his superiors, but after being kidnapped and tortured twice -- which was two too many times -- he decided it wouldn’t do, and worked to get out of it as soon as possible.

 

It was during one of his last fieldwork-involving operations that Mycroft met Anthea, after which she helped him arrange a system where others did the grunt work and he could stick to words, papers, and diplomacy. She was, for lack of a better term, his personal assistant, and though their relationship was strictly professional, he found himself liking her. She had a dry sense of humor and communicated wordlessly with ease: a quirked brow, a sideways glance, a hidden smile. After one particularly grueling week, she became the fourth person to know about his Soulmark. (Hers was a small circle just above her collarbone, the size of a fingerprint. Two months into her employment, she met her soulmate. They married. It did not affect Mycroft’s life in any way, which was just the way he liked it.)

 

Eventually, Mycroft grew to trust her. She sent him home, at times, when he’d worked himself for fifty-three hours straight during a international crisis and was practically falling asleep in his chair; she reminded him to reapply his makeup before skype calls with ministers and presidents; she kept an eye on his brother when he could not. Anthea was perhaps the sixth person Mycroft ever cared about, and although they never discussed the manner in any way, shape, or form, she knew as well as he that it was a great honor. 

 

Sherlock was sober and content with solving his crimes; Mycroft had succeeded in making himself indispensable to the government, in a position he’d made up on his own, in frequent contact with the Prime Minister and the Queen herself, and settled down; Anthea was calm and trustworthy; Lestrade was unaware of Mycroft’s existence and unaware of his cheating wife, and thus, not a concern. All things considered, Mycroft’s life was good. He was, at thirty-four, in the place he’d planned to be by forty, and if he occasionally stared at the mark on his reflection’s lips right before going to bed, that was none of anybody’s concern.

 

And then John Watson, the unassuming palm-Marked army doctor, walked into St. Bart’s hospital, and, twenty-nine hours later, laid his hand on Sherlock’s Mark, causing it to flare up in rainbow-hued light. 

 

After that, nothing was really the same. 


	5. John Watson's Second Biggest Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm? what's that? it's been five months? ShIT WHAT NO it hasn't what are you TALKING about!!
> 
> I'm so sorry. But hey, new chapter! Some of the dialogue is lifted directly from A Study In Pink, so all credit for that bit goes to the creators of Sherlock. I tried not to lift too much, though -- I know that gets annoying.
> 
> Pff why is Myc even panicking haha curious people don't get made police detectives ;D
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments, by the way! It's people like you who make me keep writing. Well, people like you, and the unresistable urge to create something meaningful and enjoyable during my stay on this planet. Enjoy!

Ominous foreshadowing aside, Mycroft had no reason to suspect that John Watson would change his own life in addition to Sherlock’s. All he was worried about was making sure the man wouldn’t hurt his brother, and as such, he did two things: watched closely, and arranged a meeting. Normally, his intrusions into Sherlock’s life were kept relatively unobtrusive -- he really did hate field work. The only exceptions he’d made were during his brother’s drug days, and otherwise, he’d always sent (carefully picked) others to do whatever little jobs needed doing. 

John Watson, however, was important enough to actually warrant a meeting, and so Mycroft kept an eye on his movements for a good moment to arrange a kidnapping. As he’d expected, the opportunity came soon enough. Sherlock’s finding a soulmate didn’t change his personality in the least, and Watson was abandoned at a crime scene when the detective got caught up in his deductions and ran off without waiting for accompaniment. Mycroft, using CCTV cameras and an abandoned phone booth, lured Watson into his car with relative ease; at the same time, he conducted the setting-up of the abandoned warehouse the meeting would take place in. This would be half interrogation, half theatrical performance, and he was honestly almost looking forward to it. 

Watson entered the warehouse just when he was expected, and Mycroft, putting on his most mysterious, superior air, was ready for him. The goal of the meeting was to find out if the man would be a suitable soulmate: tough-skinned, clever, resistant to bribes. If not, no matter what Sherlock would say, he would have to get Watson out of the way. A perfectly good life could be lived without a soulmate, and no soulmate would be better for Sherlock than a lousy one. 

“Have a seat, John.”

Watson, who, to his credit, looked quite unrattled by the purposefully uncomfortable atmosphere, spoke as he approached, limping heavily. “You know, I’ve got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but, er ... you could just phone me. On my phone.” 

Mycroft watched him. For an army doctor recently invalided from Afghanistan, he seemed frightfully average; no hint of the glory of battle and life-saving about him -- mostly, he looked tired. Still, he seemed an honest man, according to the files on him. Would he be a good fit for Sherlock? It was impossible to tell, and there was nobody, really, to compare him to. There was no nagging sense of wrongness about him, at least, as there had been around Victor Trevor -- but that didn’t mean much. Mycroft carried on with his script; Watson’s responses were mostly as he had predicted from what he’d seen of the man, and there was no need to deviate from it. He refused to sit; he refused to be frightened. 

“What are your connections to Sherlock Holmes?” Mycroft asked after a few back-and-forth phrases. Watson stared at him for a moment before responding.

“I don’t -- have one. I barely know him. I met him... yesterday.”

Now that wouldn’t do. Still, Mycroft responded in a monotone. “Mm. And yet your palm, which was dark yesterday, is so no longer. You’ve moved in with him, and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” 

Watson met his eyes, challenging. “Who are you?”

“An interested party.” Mycroft smiled. Watson, of course, had a response for that, and they went back and forth once more; it was an enjoyable exercise of the wit. Mycroft consulted a small notebook -- completely needlessly, of course -- and offered a bribe, which Watson refused; he used what he’d found in Watson’s therapist’s notes, and at last managed to get under his skin by speaking of the tremor in his left hand; and when Watson, for the second time, turned to leave, and Mycroft walked away twirling his umbrella, he was feeling quite pleased with the encounter. 

Watson was loyal; he was brave; he was wary; and at the same time he was stubborn and honest. Those qualities would serve him well in interactions with Sherlock, and in short there seemed no reason to break off the connection between the doctor and his brother. Mycroft’s worries were assuaged -- as much as they could be -- and, when he returned to his work, it was with a sigh of relief. After that, the day was spent quite pleasantly. There were no international crises, nor even national ones; it was quiet, and Mycroft even had time for a full lunch. 

Late that evening, after the case was solved, he met Watson again, and Sherlock with him. It was also -- as he was painfully aware -- the closest he’d ever been to Lestrade, who was a mere few metres away, and completely unsuspecting of Mycroft’s presence. Mycroft, of course, paid him no mind; rather, he greeted Sherlock, and enjoyed the expression of confusion on Watson’s face as the revelation that they were brothers. He allowed his approval of Sherlock’s soulmate to show -- subtly, of course -- and Sherlock, rather less subtly, showed how little he cared by walking away; and Watson, after a further two questions -- and with only a glance at Anthea -- followed him. 

Mycroft allowed himself one moment’s glance at Lestrade, who was speaking in an undertone to his sergeant. This close, he could see the man’s Soulmark clearly, and for the first time, not just in a photograph. Its darkness contrasted sharply with Lestrade’s light hair. No more was he a young, dark-haired man, rising up in the ranks of the police department; no, he was a confident detective inspector now, silver-haired in the most striking of ways, and still terribly handsome. Mycroft closed his eyes rather tighter than necessary as he blinked and turned away, stuffing any temptation to walk over deep into his mind and telling to himself, it is not to be.

Anthea, beside him, spoke. “Sir, shall we go?” 

Grateful for the distraction, he responded with a comment on his brother’s soulmate, before telling Anthea to raise Sherlock and Watson’s surveillance status. He wouldn’t be watching their home tapes anytime soon -- he was sure those would be mentally scarring, at best -- but it was still best to keep them safe. And then, without allowing his eyes to stray in Lestrade’s direction again, he slid into his car. 

Back to the office. There was work to be done.

 

The next two weeks passed quietly, and Sherlock seemed to be settling very well into his new life, which was a great source of relief to Mycroft. Not that the new life was all that different from the old; perhaps the only change was the presence of John Watson -- but what a difference it made in Sherlock! His relation with Mycroft was as acerbic as ever, but to John, he was almost a decent human being. So, half-reluctantly (because little as he cared to admit it, he felt perhaps some jealousy towards his brother), Mycroft decided he rather liked Watson. At least, he did -- until the man did what Mycroft had been avoiding for years, and, one evening at Scotland Yard, while Sherlock was causing a scene in the evidence room, asked Lestrade a question about “Sherlock’s brother”.

Naturally, Mycroft later watched the tapes. He saw the DI’s brows furrow curiously as he asked, “brother?” and saw Watson, uncomprehending, say, “yes, his brother, Mycroft--” and then catch on that something was, perhaps, meant to be a secret, but only after it was too late; he saw Lestrade dropping the subject, reluctantly, after his questions (“are you serious?” “He has a BROTHER?”) went unanswered -- but of course that wouldn’t be the end of it. Mycroft knew enough about human nature, and Lestrade’s specifically, to know that. 

This, of course, was an issue Mycroft had put thought into. Being who he was, he could not possibly have gone all those years knowing of the man without putting plans into place: what to do if Lestrade finds out, what to do if Lestrade is in peril and there is nobody but Mycroft who can save him; what to do if Sherlock gets drunk or high and tells the secret. His plans had morphed over the years, as well, as Lestrade’s police rank improved, and his bond with Sherlock strengthened. At first the plan had been simple: prohibit Lestrade and Sherlock from interacting again. And that would have been simple enough, for a few months -- but now it had been five years, and the chances of either of the men allowing that to happen were practically below zero. Still, Mycroft’s plan, in the moments before what he secretly thought of as John Watson’s Largest Mistake After Falling In Love With My Brother, had been organized and would probably have worked flawlessly. His plans always did. 

Well. They always did, when emotion wasn’t involved. And you’d think, at this point, Mycroft would have learnt how to suppress it. But none of his practice in shoving feelings back did him any good at that particular moment, when his brother informed him of what had happened. Mycroft had been frozen, for a moment, and reverted to echolalia:

“John asked Lestrade about me?”

And then, after a few mocking words on Sherlock’s side (“yes. Your cat’s finally out of the bag, hmm, brother dear? Whatever shall you do?”), Mycroft hung up, pulled up the tapes, watched them on a loop, and silently panicked.


	6. the Passage of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing about Greg really in this one, sorry. But at least some canon stuff has changed! ooh! because Sherlock's in a relationship with John, there isn't really the whole... love stuff, between Irene and himself? Which is a good thing, really, in my opinion, because that romance is just SUCH a mutilation of the original story, jesus. Actually, if whoever's reading this hasn't read the original story -- A Scandal in Bohemia by Arthur Conan Doyle -- GO DO THAT NOW. It's wonderful. 
> 
> Anyway, some lines lifted from "a scandal in belgravia", but most of them were changed a bit. uhh... yup! Next chapter will probably be around the Hound of Baskerville episode? We'll see.
> 
> Also -- just a footnote -- all the italics I use in my writing just kind of disappear when pasted in the text box, so... just pretend there are italics in the right places, I guess.

Over the course of the next few weeks, between bursts of forcing himself to concentrate on work (at least his willpower hadn’t failed him entirely), Mycroft fought to keep from falling apart. Sherlock, of course, revelled in it. He’d mostly gotten over his fears of Mycroft “stealing” Lestrade, which had been strong in the early days (though he’d never admit it), after realizing how desperate Mycroft was not to reveal himself; and now that he had John, Sherlock was completely past caring about that. Instead, he was free to enjoy his brother’s struggles, and laugh and ridicule at his leisure. Mycroft, of course, hated it. 

He was, however, not about to admit that. So, after his initial panic, he’d done his best to calm himself down by assuring himself that this meant nothing. Okay, so Lestrade was now aware that Sherlock had a brother. So what? The man didn’t know how old Mycroft was; he didn’t know his name; he didn’t even know what he looked like, let alone where or what his Soulmark was! And now that John was aware he wasn’t supposed to say anything about Mycroft, there was no danger. Sherlock wasn’t one to break habits, and saying nothing about his brother to anyone was a deeply-ingrained one. 

All of these attempts at calming himself down, however, were negated again and again every time Sherlock and Lestrade met -- because the damn DI would not stop asking questions! For whatever reason (probably because Mycroft avoided thinking about Lestrade whenever he could, even when actively trying to plan around him), Mycroft hadn’t accounted for the man’s curiosity. Mycroft didn’t even have to use CCTV to monitor his brother’s interactions with Lestrade -- Sherlock was happy to convey the conversations, over phone and especially in person, relishing Mycroft’s inner torment. 

“Lestrade asked John about your profession,” Sherlock conveyed one evening, “and John said you were a minor government official. How you got John to accept your ridiculous lies, I have no idea, but I set him straight, of course. Lestrade, however, is surely convinced that since you settle for such a dull job, you must be the less intelligent one between us.” He accompanied that statement with a superior smirk. Mycroft did his best not to care, but the thought of himself not being seen as smart was annoying.

Another day, after rejecting a case Mycroft requested he take a look at without so much as glancing over it, Sherlock told him, “Lestrade asked about you again.” He left it at that, and Mycroft, naturally, could not ask for further elaboration. He did have his pride, though Sherlock’s obvious satisfaction at frustrating his brother was almost enough to overwhelm it. 

(Later, John came in, and Mycroft managed to convince him to take the Andrew West case. It was so lovely, Sherlock having a pressure point, that Mycroft almost felt he’d won that particular brotherly encounter. And the case got solved, in the end.)

“Lestrade and his wife are ‘having issues’,” Sherlock reported a few weeks later, over the phone. “He finally cottoned on to her cheating -- you’d think he’d have figured it out ages ago, being a police officer and all, but he does seem committed to being dull and stupid.” His voice was smug. “Do you wonder, brother dear, what he would do if he discovered what you were? Being the romantic he is, and at this stage in a deteriorating relationship, surely---” 

Irritation getting the better of him, Mycroft hung up before Sherlock could finish his sentence.

One particular Sunday afternoon, somewhere in the middle of what Mycroft would later come to think of as the Irene Adler fiasco, it was John who brought the topic up. It was getting near Christmas, and he’d gotten some idea into his mind of hosting a Christmas party, and for some reason had decided to invite Mycroft. His reasoning, after all those pieces of ridiculousness, was nearly not ridiculous at all. “See, Lestrade’s been asking after you -- apparently he’s known Sherlock for years, and not so much as heard of you. Frankly, that’s ridiculous. Just meet him, once, would you?”

Mycroft even considered it, for about half a second. “No.” John’s face didn’t fall, exactly, but it did something, and his eyes flew over to Sherlock (who was sulking on a his sofa) before he shrugged. 

“Alright. Well. Um.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and glanced at the ceiling, presumably looking for patience. Mycroft could almost hear him thinking, bloody Holmeses, and offered a close-lipped smile. John looked back at him, shrugged again, and got to his feet. “Ah... more tea?”

Mycroft refused and excused himself to leave, that time, and John didn’t ask him to Christmas again. There was really no point in taking the holiday off, in Mycroft’s eyes. Some of his best work was often done on holidays, when there were no bumbling idiots making a mess of things while he was still in the middle of fixing them. 

It wasn’t long before Christmas did arrive, and Mycroft had gotten into a very productive workflow, sitting by a fireplace and sipping an expensive scotch while working on his laptop, when Sherlock called him.

“Oh, dear lord. We’re not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?”

“I think you’re going to find Irene Adler tonight.”

“We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters.”

“No, I mean you’re going to find her dead.”

Sherlock hung up, and with that, Mycroft’s workflow went quite out the window. He set his laptop aside and wandered over to his window, gazing at the falling snow. It was quiet, and peaceful, but inside Mycroft was nothing but annoyance: this entire business was a disaster, and Sherlock was only making it worse. He sighed and pulled out his phone, sending out requests for news on anything on Adler. 

Sure enough, a mere hour later, Mycroft found himself at the morgue with his brother and Molly Hooper, and a body with Irene Adler’s Soulmark and a face quite unrecognizable for all the injuries. “That’s her,” Sherlock confirmed, tone subdued, and Molly nodded. She looked, Mycroft thought, rather more self-confident than she had been when he saw her last. And, he thought, quite a bit less desperate for Sherlock’s affection. Perhaps she’d finally gotten over the unrequited love which had been painfully obvious since she had first met his brother, now that he was with John. It was about time.

Later, Mycroft and Sherlock stood out in the hall, smoking low-tar cigarettes and watching a grieving family sob over some loved one’s death.

“Look at them. They all care so much,” Sherlock said. “I never understood that, until... Ah. Mycroft, don’t you think your Soulmate would do you good?”

“All lives end. All hearts are broken.” Mycroft spoke, aloud, the words that he told himself all the time. “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.” God, and didn’t he know that? His own affection for Sherlock, ingrained in his soul as it was, was certainly his greatest disadvantage. Opening himself up to another would only cripple him further. He knew that. And yet his words still sounded hollow. “Besides, he’s back with his wife again.”

“Well, I, for my part, could not be more grateful for John. And she’s cheating with a PE teacher. I told him that.” Sherlock blew a puff of smoke and wrinkled his nose. “These are crappy cigarettes.” 

Mycroft didn’t respond, merely put his own cigarette up to his lips and met Sherlock’s gaze as he looked at him, light eyes almost black in the dark hall. Sherlock blinked, and nodded once, sharply, as he turned to leave. “Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

“And a happy New Year.”

Take care of him, John, Mycroft thought as he watched his brother walk away. Take care of him, so I can stop doing so myself.

He allowed himself two more minutes of nicotine poisoning before finding an ashtray to drop his cigarette into. It was three in the morning, which meant that, despite the work he had planned to complete that night being nowhere near finished, he would have to allow himself a few hours of rest. Damn human bodily necessities. If only he could get around needing to sleep, eat, and breathe, his life would be so much simpler.

The end of the Irene Adler case came eventually, and Sherlock’s joy about having one-upped his brother was unparalleled. He didn’t say anything, of course, but Mycroft could read the satisfaction in every line of his body as he left. Later, once the paperwork was sorted out -- which was an ordeal in and of itself -- Mycroft paid a visit to Baker Street, or rather, to the cafe beneath it, making sure to be there when John Watson arrived, and to give him a falsified file on Irene Adler.

This was followed by a brief conversation, because John seemed to find the need to talk at every opportunity, but there was nothing of substance mentioned, and Mycroft took the chance to deduce his brother’s Soulmate once again: he was happy, contented even, somehow; had, perhaps, mixed feelings about Irene Adler, but was confident in Sherlock’s loyalty to himself; was worried about his sister; and, obviously enough, had forgotten to bring an umbrella on his run out to the store. It was strange, to see someone so glad to be in a relationship with Sherlock, eccentricities and arrogance and all. Whoever would have thought it were possible? Mycroft, certainly, had dismissed it as a possibility, until John came along. 

Oh, well. 

It sure was a good thing he had.


	7. Baskerville, One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's day!! I'm so sorry.

Things settled down, after that. Mycroft found himself able to work without too many interruptions, and there were no major crises going on for once, internationally, nationally, or with Sherlock. John proved his use again and again in keeping Sherlock out of trouble, or at least, only in minor trouble; and D.I. Lestrade seemed to be easing off on the “why the fuck didn’t Sherlock tell me he had a brother” investigation. Mycroft, meanwhile, enjoyed his “minor” government role, weekly meetings with the Prime Minister and occasional tea with the Queen and all. The ever-present whispers of discontent had been pushed, once more, to the wayside; and really, Mycroft was doing very well. 

That is not to say, of course, that Sherlock eased off on his antagonism towards his brother; his acerbic comments and hints were as common, and as irritating, as ever. Lestrade’s attempts to “get past” his wife’s “unfortunate habits” were now a common conversational topic, one Sherlock brought up every time he was tired of Mycroft’s “bothering”. In all honesty, Mycroft would have been glad to cut direct contact with his brother entirely, at least until the soulmate topic was abandoned. However, that was not likely to happen; and besides, these checkups were something the brothers had established years before, to ensure Sherlock didn’t go back on the drugs, and that Mycroft didn’t get entirely lost in his work. It was an agreement with a buried source in some sort of, dare he think it, brotherly affection -- and losing that would be an unspeakable tragedy. So, despite Sherlock’s jabs and unwillingness to listen to anything Mycroft said, they still met, or at least spoke over the phone, once every week or so. 

As Mycroft worked at improving his standing in the government, and making himself completely indispensable, he found himself sent abroad more and more often, primarily as an observer in important meetings, and occasionally as a diplomat. He honed his false smile and ability to converse with, and convince, strangers; he found a perfect brand of long-lasting makeup, for times he could not so easily sneak off to the bathroom to reapply; he learnt government secrets, and stowed them away, pigeon-holed in his mind. He acquired agents -- underlings -- minions, of a sort -- and ensured they all had some form of loyalty to him, whether it be from his rescuing them financially, from saving their lives, or from ever-so-subtle threats of what might happen if they disobeyed. It was, perhaps, manipulative; but such was the way of bureaucracy. 

Just as manipulative -- in both directions -- were Mycroft’s meetings (such as they were) with Moriarty. But those, well, those were hardly worth getting into, and he came to regret them intensely; the man was certifiably insane.

This stretch of relative peace was eventually broken, obviously. And its end came with something Mycroft had been dreading for years, but which was, in the end, completely unavoidable: in-person contact with Gregory Lestrade.

It may have started with a vacation. Some sort of attempt, perhaps, on Lestrade’s part, to revive his and his wife’s relationship: a trip to a romantic sunswept beach on the shore of a land far from their problems -- a trip he returned from, tanned, warm, and hopeful for the future. A trip that gave even the fickle Mrs. Lestrade motivation to at least try and be a faithful wife.

It started, in another sense, with an international crisis. Nothing anyone outside of the highest parts of the government would know practically anything about, since it was top-secret, and silenced on all fronts; but, nevertheless, of the utmost importance to all involved... Mycroft Holmes, of course, included.

Ah, but no -- perhaps it started with a case. One of Sherlock’s clients with a bizarre story about some massive hound -- a drug trip, a secret scientific facility, an identity stolen by one brother from the other. John would later entitle it, on his blog, “The Hounds of Baskerville”; and if the tale was strange and dangerous and fantastical, well, so were many of Sherlock’s other cases. 

Really, other than what it led to for Mycroft personally, it wasn’t a particularly important case. However, the personal impact was significant. It forced him into a confrontation he’d been putting off indefinitely, and there was, in the end, nothing for it. 

So we can conclude, I suppose, that it actually started with Mycroft forced into a corner. DI Lestrade had just returned from his vacation and his marriage was on the mend, and Sherlock Holmes had just left for the moors where his life was likely to be put in peril, and Mycroft had no way to keep an eye on anything, his own agents being busy with other dire situations, and he also had no way to solve this professionally, being as that would be betraying his weaknesses to his “employers”, and that was unacceptable. So it ended with only one way out, and that was, unfortunately, to get Lestrade to keep an eye on Sherlock, in order to keep Mycroft from worrying intensely over his brother in such a case where the dangers were real and the importance of Mycroft’s ability to concentrate was paramount. (And if there was the added bonus that his absence would cause Lestrade’s marriage to lose its stability, nobody need think about that. At all. Ever.)

It was with a trembling hand that Mycroft picked up his phone and dialed the number he’d memorized nearly seven years ago. Back then, it had been someone to call in case his brother got in trouble with the law. Now, it was a last resort. But Mycroft had a meeting at six, which left him only ten minutes to get through this conversation and convince the DI to do as he requested. He had the CCTV from the man’s office up on his screen -- he’d just returned to work, and was beginning to go through the papers piled up on his desk. His phone was lying off to the side.

Mycroft hit “call”. 

There was a few moment’s delay, during which he slowly brought the phone up to his ear, eyes fixed on the dark square beside Lestrade in the security camera feed.

Beep, beep.

The tinny sounds of a phone ringing.

And then Mycroft’s soulmate picked up the phone.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking. Who is this?”


	8. Baskerville

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy! Another chapter!! THE BOYS FINALLY INTERACT!! it's only been like ten thousand words. What a fast slow burn this is by Jane Austen standards... I'm just kidding. Anyway. This was a hard one to write -- I hope the dialogue turned out alright!

Mycroft’s mouth went dry. His palms were clammy. He felt ill. That was alright -- he couldn’t control his subconscious actions. He could, however, control the conscious ones, and... a plan, right, he’d had a plan, what was it -- frighten him? Yes, that was it, frighten him into action. Mycroft’s tongue darted over his lips. This was fine. Lestrade was a policeman. He liked Sherlock. This would work. Just follow the plan. 

“This, ah. This is someone with an interest in the affairs of a certain, how does he put it... consulting detective.”

He could practically hear Lestrade’s shackles go up, and saw him sit up straight on the CCTV feed. Mycroft knew what he was thinking -- likely enough, similar things to what Mycroft himself would have thought in such a situation. A string of profanity. Wordless worry and concern. Anger. Or perhaps just, WHAT has Sherlock done now? 

“I beg your pardon?” Lestrade’s voice had dropped, quiet and low, and Mycroft’s empty hand clenched into a fist. He worried at his palm with fingernails that he should have clipped several days previously. 

“Sherlock Holmes. He’ll need your help soon. I need you to be there.”

The tiny figure on Mycroft’s screen got to his feet, and Mycroft hated himself for having known he would do that -- for knowing that Lestrade paced whenever faced with a difficult situation. “Who the fuck are you?” 

“That’s not important, Detective Inspector. What is paramount is that you make your way to Baskerville and offer your--”

“Are you Sherlock’s brother?”

Mycroft found himself stuck in the middle of the word ‘assistance’. How had-- what--?

“Are you Mycroft Holmes?”

He couldn’t breathe.

“I’m assuming you are.” 

Couldn’t--

“Well, look here, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know what the hell’s up with you, and why it’s been-- shit, seven years? And I’ve never met or even heard of you, but I am sure as fuck not going to let you intimidate me into going after Sherlock to somewhere in the middle of nowhere after I just got home, with no reasoning other than “he’ll need your help”. Jesus, who do you think I am? I have a job and have to do it, I can’t be chasing Sherlock all around the countryside! So if that’s all, I’ll be getting back to my job now. Go yourself, if it’s that important. Christ.” 

The tiny Lestrade on Mycroft’s computer screen pulled his phone away from his ear and jabbed at a button, and there was a click as he hung up. Mycroft forced himself to exhale. 

Well. He had certainly been far from expecting this turn of events. He’d had it all planned out, and Lestrade had dashed that plan to the rocks within the first few minutes. That seemed to be his specialty when it came to Mycroft! First he’d become aware of his existence, and now? This conversation had gone approximately opposite to what he’d wanted it to, and, certainly, Lestrade didn’t seem like he would be open to further conversation. 

At least, not over the phone.

Alright. This was, objectively, not a big deal. Practically everybody met and had to talk to their soulmates. The fact that his happened to be angry at him wasn’t-- wasn’t a big deal. And he didn’t know he was-- he wouldn’t, couldn’t know he was---- Okay. Okay, this was fine. 

Mycroft gave himself an additional thirty seconds to calm down before ringing the bell for Anthea. When she came in, wordlessly handing him a tube of lipstick, he got to his feet.

“Arrange for D.I. Lestrade to be picked up and brought to meet me at my tertiary office after the meeting tonight.”

She nodded.

 

The day was over before Mycroft was ready for it to be. He hoped he’d managed himself alright -- was fairly confident nobody he worked with was sharp enough to pick up any signs of distress, at any rate -- but after Lestrade’s demolition of his barriers, he was uncertain. And now, despite his iron control, and the reflection of his perfectly calm and emotionless face in the bathroom mirror, Mycroft’s heart was pounding and he felt hot and uncomfortable. His sleeves were rolled up, hair slightly dishevelled: artful decisions, by no means accidental, meant to set the D.I. at ease. His backup backup office, set in a nondescript government building that was of course nowhere near as high-security as his real one, was carefully organized (or rather, carefully messy) to make him seem a busy, but unimportant, person. He had his story planned out: a minor government official in the department of transportation, worried about his brother. How would he explain the seven years’ silence? Secretiveness, perhaps, or shyness. The goal, of course, was to get Lestrade to go after Sherlock. And, hopefully, quench his curiosity, so he would quit asking questions about Mycroft. That would be simple: he just had to exude boringness. Sherlock was forever accusing him of doing that anyway.

He sat at the desk, glass of whiskey in front of him, a second glass ready for his guest. Lipstick, of course, in place. It was half past ten when there was a knock on the door, and Anthea entered, followed by Lestrade. Mycroft, who had fortunately had a good fifteen minutes to brace himself for the sight of his soulmate, was able to politely nod a greeting and gesture for the D.I. to sit down, even though, good god, the man was even more stunning up close. 

Anthea left, and closed the door behind her. And there they were. Just the two of them. Mycroft only wished it were under different circumstances.

“Do you care to explain what’s going on?” Lestrade was scowling, which did not mark a good beginning. Mycroft clasped his hands in his lap and sat up straight, donning the dullest expression he could muster.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft saw Lestrade’s scowl deepen as he recognized the voice from the phone call, and unfortunately, noticing the scowl also led to him noticing (that is, being unable to ignore) the prominent soul-mark. He forced himself on, but his eyes lingered for what was probably longer than proper on the man’s lips. “I am, as you guessed, Mycroft Holmes. I work in the department of traffic, which is really not worth discussing. What is worth discussing, however, is my brother. And throughout your acquaintance with him, you have doubtless discovered how prone he is to chasing danger, which is why I’d appreciate your assistance in protecting him--”

“Oh, no way,” growled Lestrade. “you can’t be serious! I don’t know you, have no reason to listen to you, and if you really are just a lowly government official working in the department of traffic, there would be no reason for Sherlock to keep you a secret for so long. Which is besides the fact I don’t know if you really are Mycroft Holmes, I’ve never met the man in my life.”

Okay, so this wasn’t going to be easy. “Come now, Mr. Lestrade. Do you really believe my brother would tell you anything about his personal life except under extreme circumstances? Perhaps those circumstances never occurred. However, if needs must, I can show you some family photographs as evidence of our relation.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Lestrade said, “and maybe I’ll believe the family bit, but why would that be a reason to run off to the arse end of nowhere in search of -- a hound, was it? I think they said something about it on the telly last night -- just to help Sherlock, when he didn’t even ask for it? That’s just idiotic, it is, Mr. Holmes, and I’m a lot of things, but I’m no idiot.”

“That may be so,” Mycroft countered, almost enjoying the banter -- people so rarely opposed him nowadays. As he spoke, he slid a folder with a few choice photographs of himself and Sherlock (flattering to himself and embarrassing for his brother, albeit very subtly) across the table. Lestrade picked it up and opened it, cautious. “Nevertheless, Sherlock is going to get himself into a choice bit of trouble, and your presence as an official police officer will doubtless do well. Your leave will be paid, naturally, and you’ll be duly compensated for--”

“Nevermind the money,” interrupted the D.I., his scowl dissipating as he paged through the folder, “I’d take more photos of Sherlock as payment, these are golden, is that a fedora?” Mycroft didn’t respond. He tore his eyes away from Lestrade’s face as he waited patiently for him to finish glancing through the pictures. Maybe he shouldn’t have put in so many, but he’d hoped the prospect of blackmail material on Sherlock (in the form of potential embarrassment) would encourage Lestrade to accept his offer. At length, there was a sound of shuffling paper, and Mycroft looked back up. “Yeah, okay, so you are his brother, unless you’re ridiculously good at photoshop. What sort of trouble could he even be in, to worry you? He deals with criminals all the time, and I’m sure you know that, so...” 

Now that his worries were assuaged, Lestrade seemed ready to get down to business. He leaned forward and rested his chin in his hand, inquisitive, and for the first time that evening -- hell, for the first time ever -- met Mycroft’s eyes. Mycroft would later swear he’d felt a tingle go down his spine at that moment. Those eyes were dark and clever and beautiful, and he had to force himself to carry on as if nothing had happened. (And nothing had happened, to Lestrade, at any rate. What did that mean? Weren’t soulmates supposed to feel the connection instinctively, even before the touch? Maybe Mycroft’s soulbond was broken. Maybe it was one-sided. Maybe. Maybe.)

“Sherlock gets himself into a lot of difficult situations. I can’t explain why I think this one will be a noteworthy one. I just have a bad feeling about it.” Mycroft allowed a bit of concern to shine through on his face, looking Lestrade squarely in the face so he’d seem completely honest. “I can’t do anything about it myself because he doesn’t listen to me, I’m sure you know how siblings are, but... maybe you can do something to help. Look, if you’d just go out there, keep an eye on him and Dr. Watson...”

Lestrade sighed, but Mycroft could tell he was beginning to be convinced. The siblings card was a good one to play, at any rate. Mycroft had read the man’s file, all those years ago, and remembered practically all of it. He knew Gregory Lestrade had an adoptive younger sister and that they had an excellent, supportive relationship (much more functional than his and Sherlock’s, for sure). He knew Lestrade occasionally had a hard time dealing with murders within families. He knew it was a surefire way to appeal to his emotions. And Mycroft was manipulative; that was just what he did. 

“I don’t know. I’m only just after coming back from a vacation.”

“I am aware, and I apologize. But I would not appeal to you if it were not important.” Oh, how true that was, Lestrade would never know. Mycroft settled himself more comfortably into his chair, prepared for a proper game of manipulation. And now that the initial speed bumps had been overcome, it was a simple enough matter. Mycroft used his much-practiced repression-of-feelings tactics, which handily kept his emotions out of the equation even as he appealed to Lestrade’s quite unabashedly. A neat ten minutes, and Lestrade was already leaving the room, having agreed to go to Baskerville, keep Mycroft’s involvement secret, and help Sherlock however he could. 

Nice.

As soon as he was gone, Mycroft could feel practical bucketloads of tension seep out of his spine. He hadn’t realized just how stressed he’d been during that encounter, but enjoyment of banter or not, it had certainly been difficult. Talking to a man, devastatingly handsome, with a life destined to be entwined with his own -- when the man himself was so completely unaware of the fact, and treated Mycroft with scorn and annoyance -- well. It was hard. Mycroft forced himself to breathe in and out slowly, several times, and closed his eyes.

 

Not very long after that, Lestrade, Sherlock, and John returned from Baskerville. Sherlock had a few words of complaint to say about Mycroft sending “a lackey” after him, and many more words of teasing about him meeting his soulmate, haHA. But that was fine -- Mycroft was fine. Everything. Was. Fine.


End file.
